Proud of You
by KitCat Italica
Summary: Bruce Wayne’s life has become a finely-tuned balancing act. One night, his past catches up with him and threatens to tip the balance over the edge. And Alfred is once again left the task of restoring his conscience to order.


Proud of You

Alfred had never particularly liked parties. They were a hassle to prepare and manage, and cleaning up afterwards was no picnic either. The task, however, was always the lot that fell to him, and thus he fulfilled his duties faithfully each time. It was not his place to protest against that which would better the future of Bruce Wayne – the man whom he devoted every waking hour of his life to serving to the best of his ability.

The most difficult matter of the various fundraisers and social functions the Wayne Foundation put on, however, was not the hectic scheduling, nor the intolerably transparent guests; it was Bruce Wayne himself. His constant gallivanting as Batman had certainly affected his outlook towards the events – he protested against them more and more as Alfred saw less and less of him as the months crawled by. It had been three years since Falcone's capture, three years since Batman had fully integrated himself into the young billionaire's life. Lately, though Alfred would never let on about it, he had noticed Bruce had become quite withdrawn from his normal playboy activities, preferring to spend his time in his Batcave, brooding in front of computer monitors.

Brooding over what, Alfred had not the heart to ask.

Now, as he attended to the beverage needs of the slightly tipsy and quite impatient crowd of Gotham's most prominent socialites, Alfred glanced at his Rolex and sighed for the seventeenth time that night. Bruce was late. Again. Not that he had expected otherwise; the billionaire had not arrived on time to _anything_ in the past three years unless it pertained to his crusade.

Alfred rummaged around his coat pockets, searching for his private communicator so as to contact Bruce and inquire after his whereabouts (and most likely to remind him that the fundraiser had begun in the first place), when he thought better of the action; perhaps it was best not to disturb Bruce at the moment, for Batman hated interruptions in his mission. Maybe it was better to leave him at his work for now and trust him to arrive when the time came.

Once convinced of his decision, Alfred released his grip on the inactive communicator and turned around to attend more guests.

Only to glimpse Batman, in full costume, plodding mechanically past an open doorway, down the hall leading to his bedroom.

He had never looked quite so lethargic before. So…dead.

Something was wrong.

Concern spreading over the butler's face, Alfred set the tray of drinks on the nearest table and calmly, deliberately, dashed after him.

As soon as he had made it across the spacious ballroom to the hallway, the Batman was nowhere in sight, yet he barely caught a glimpse of Bruce's bedroom door thudding shut. Cautiously, Alfred proceeded, treading down the ornate hallway as if hell lurked behind the closed door, ready with a thousand demons to engulf him and swallow him whole.

One could never be too careful where Bruce Wayne was concerned.

Once he arrived at his destination, Alfred gingerly gripped the doorknob, half-expecting it to ignite at the slightest touch. But his duty to his master guided him forward, and he tentatively opened the door ajar. The still form of the Batman sat silently at a chair facing the large, gaping window, cowl still covering his head even in the sanctity of his own sleeping quarters, cape hanging moodily down his back.

Alfred slowly made his way in, fearing the worst. Why would Bruce risk revealing his identity to the public by parading as his Kevlar-covered self around his mansion, without bothering to take off his armor within the protective walls of Wayne Manor? Alfred knew that Bruce was prone to extreme risk-seeking behavior, but this extended to a level far beyond what even he had originally suspected. No, something had to be seriously wrong with the knight's rational mind to be affecting his judgment _this_ badly.

Absently, Alfred regarded the party suit and tie he had prepared earlier for his master's arrival, which Bruce had obviously neglected. "Aren't you coming to the fundraiser, sir?" he asked.

For a long moment that stretched into eons, Batman said nothing. Alfred patiently awaited his reply, a practice he was quite accustomed to.

"…no, I don't…think I…should…" came the eventual response.

Alfred considered. He could try to dissuade Bruce from his course of action and insist he attend the party, but in light of the present situation, he deemed it best not to press the matter. Bruce would crawl out of his armored shell when he was good and ready.

If he ever decided to.

"Very well, sir," Alfred acquiesced. "I'll start ushering out the guests." He turned back towards the door.

Before he could turn the doorknob, a choked voice appeared out of nowhere, escaping the thirty-two-year-old man's throat in the voice of the eight-year-old boy Alfred had once known. A voice that stopped him in his tracks.

"…would they be proud of me?"

Alfred closed his eyes. Finally, the moment had come. He had been waiting for – and dreading – this day ever since Bruce had told him on the plane from Tibet of his wild scheme to save Gotham with this nighttime persona. For he knew exactly to whom the billionaire was referring to.

And he had been wondering the same exact question himself for the past three years.

Would Thomas Wayne, the man who had used almost all his family fortune to stand against violence and fear, approve of his son's violent methods to achieve personal retribution in his name? Would Martha Wayne, who had brought her little boy up to be a kind, upstanding citizen, embrace his feral, almost bloodthirsty vigilantism to symbolize the ideals she stood for?

Had they been alive, would they be able to look their only child in the eye, had they seen the full extent of his acts in the darkness?

It was a question that continually plagued Alfred each night as he made his rounds through the thinly-breathing house, staying up for Bruce until his return. It nearly brought the lighthearted butler to tears when he pondered it.

For deep down, he knew the answer.

And now Bruce seemed to have stumbled upon the same question, and instinctively feared the inevitable reply. Yet he had once again given Alfred the impossible task of providing hope in the sea of hopelessness, the shining light at the end of the endless tunnel of eternal night. He now sat in choking silence, awaiting the butler's reply.

He couldn't lie to him, that much Alfred knew. As much as Bruce deserved more than the truth, this was a matter too important to lie about. Telling him what he wanted – what he _needed_ – to hear wouldn't be enough this time. So as Alfred turned back and quietly stepped towards his master, he cast about with his mind for an answer, an answer that both shone with hope and rang with truth.

And suddenly, he found one.

Crossing in front of the caped figure, Alfred lifted up the bare chin that rested on the Bat insignia on Bruce's chest to look him in the eye. Eyes that shone with a child's tears. A child that Alfred had for so long believed to have vanished underneath the cold visage of justice and order. Now, as he had done twenty-four years ago to provide Bruce with the strength to purge his guilt, he met the tear-filled gaze with one of solemn certainty.

"_I'm_ proud of you," he whispered.

His simple response was the most truthful he had ever given in his long life. The conviction of his words pierced Bruce's heart with firm arrows of strength. He returned his butler's gaze with equal measure, as if testing the validity of the statement. Alfred's eyes never wavered. Finally, Bruce lowered his gaze. He nodded silently. Alfred stepped to the side, touching a hand to Bruce's shoulder.

"Would you like some hot chocolate?"

Bruce had not been asked that question in over two decades. Yet he slowly nodded again.

With a new task at hand, Alfred set off towards the door to disappear into the kitchen. Yet before he could exit, a new sound softly escaped the billionaire's lips.

"Thank you, sir."

The last word was not missed by the butler's ears, and he turned back for a moment to the caped back of his master, a smile creeping onto his face and a twinkle in his eye. He then quietly exited the room, tears brimming as his heart swelled with a pride unable to ever be fully expressed.

* * *

**Ah Alfred, where would Bruce be without you? Burned to a crisp underneath a smoldering log in Wayne Manor, I guess. Or left in Tibet to find a way back home on his own. Or struggling to come up with a way to order all the parts of his cowl from different Asian companies. Or falling to pieces once he learned Rachel never loved him after all. (Then again, I suppose that would fuel his desperate need to sleep with Joker ^^)**

**So yes, I'm back from my exciting, exhausting, stress-filled "vacation" at Disneyworld. During which time no mental free time was offered, so I could never find time to write except when I was too sleep-deprived to pick up a pen without keeling over. And to top it all off I was forbidden from bringing my laptop on the trip, so I could never post anything anyway. But whenever I get a break from the mountain of homework I'm swamped under this Spring Break, expect many more wonderful diddies about everyone's favorite pair of superhero/supervillain lovers!!! :D**

**And this fic was inspired by the song "Proud of You" by the band 10 Years, which has produced some amazing work including the best song I have ever heard, "The Autumn Effect (Piano Version)". If you don't listen to the first, I definitely suggest you listen to the second. It's just...wow. Experience the power of the first 35 seconds of that song and then tell me you're not hooked.**


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